


Reel Against Your Body's Borders

by cascading



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of vomiting, or at least very dubious comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 13:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11149461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascading/pseuds/cascading
Summary: Laviz clears his throat. “You—you want him, sir? For tonight?”Of course, Ulaz thinks. Officers’ right. He wasn’t looking for a fuck, but it’d certainly be kinder to Shiro than leaving him to be pummeled while some unknown toxin works in his system. That’s what makes Ulaz angry, really. He did all that research and it’s not even being used.The room is still staring at him, and at Shiro, who’s struggling up to his knees to lessen the pressure on his arm and shoulder. Ulaz grits his teeth and doesn’t make the human’s efforts any easier.“Officers’ right,” he finally says, nodding to Laviz. “Choose another for your games.”





	Reel Against Your Body's Borders

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably an extreme characterization of Ulaz, but I do see him as very pragmatic for the most part, focused on results over methods. Add into that the idea that Galra don't necessarily see sex the same way humans do, plus a significant power imbalance, and here you go.

Ulaz tires of the officers’ lounge, sometimes. It is all boring talk, politics and war, the occasional inquiries into the health of someone’s family. And it is dangerous talk, too, harder to navigate than the casual chatter in the break room that the lower ranks use.

He has conducted himself well these past days, Ulaz thinks, making polite talk with the others. So he gives himself permission to his escape tonight, in hopes of a quiet game of dice. But as he approaches the break room, he hears cheering, clapping—it’s something rowdier than dice, tonight, then, he thinks. But he pushes the door open anyway.

The soldiers have formed a ring, some sitting and some standing. In the center…Ulaz peers into the room, catching sight of a blur of motion.

Ah, he thinks, a fight. He could report them for it, but he doubts anything would be done; forcing prisoners into fights outside the arena is not allowed in practice, but looked over in theory. Ulaz has even known it to happen in the officers’ lounge on occasion, when they’ve been drinking.

No, he thinks, he’ll let the men have their fun. The prisoners won’t come to much harm, after all; it’s not like they’ve been given weapons. Ulaz can’t afford to make himself stand out too much, either to the officers or to the men.

He steps into the room, nodding to those with whom he makes eye contact, and looks at the lineup of fighters sitting bound against the wall. There’s a couple of Kyrsaks, a Balmeran, the human that remains of the three Ulaz helped perform research on…

Ulaz remembers the human’s name too well: Shiro. It’s from the long days of data collection, that’s all, he excuses to himself, so he does not have to consider if he has formed an attachment. It’s simply the result of too many times hearing the humans call for each other in anguish.

Ulaz remembers other things, too, though, things he heard talk of in the officers’ lounge. Shiro’s cell was searched recently, a stolen datapad found there. Ulaz didn’t see the consequences himself, but whippings are standard fare for prisoners caught thieving.

He squints across the room at Shiro, who sits cross-legged with his wrists tied to his ankles, same as the rest of those selected to fight tonight. Unlike the others, though, he isn’t leaning back against the wall. Instead, he’s hunched forward, face taut and pale.

There were only a few times in the entirety of the research process that Ulaz saw Shiro look so beaten-down. It was a bad whipping, then, he thinks, perhaps more punishment than strictly required? But no, theft of a pad is no ordinary offense. It would require deviousness, and might indicate plans to escape.

Ulaz schools away his feelings of pity and thinks of the Blade.

Around him, the men erupt into cheering again, and Ulaz looks back at the makeshift ring. One of the fighters is down, pinned by the other: a conclusion to the match.

Ulaz applauds, too, moving further into the room to claim a chair. The soldier on his right salutes, but Ulaz waves him off.

“At ease, Laviz,” he says.

“Thank you, sir,” Laviz says. “You’ve come to see the matches, then?”

“I’ve come to escape Plytox,” Ulaz confides. “His complaints about trade routes are wearying.”

Laviz laughs sympathetically. “Well, you’ll find no such talk here, sir.”

Ulaz smiles at Laviz, then turns back to watch which prisoners are being selected next. One of the Kyrsaks has already been untied, flexing its claws when it’s brought to its feet. And then—

Shiro. Of course, Shiro.

Ulaz’s mouth draws tight. Shiro is shaking, hardly able to get his feet under him. The soldier untying him gives a hard shove to his shoulder and he stumbles back, falling against the wall. 

“Laviz,” Ulaz says, indicating Shiro. “What was the extent of that prisoner’s punishment when he was caught stealing last week, do you know?”

Laviz shrugs. “He got that barbed whip that Commander Sendak likes, I think. Some sort of toxin on it. I wasn’t in the room but he made a hell of a racket.”

Ulaz watches Shiro try to step away from the wall. He falters, like a cub just learning to walk, and the soldier pushes him again. Shiro thuds to the floor.

“Was the toxin cross-checked for species-specific results before use?” Ulaz asks.

“Fuck if I know, sir,” says Laviz.

The crowd is starting to jeer now. Shiro gets his knees under him, pushes up to all fours. Ulaz can see him sweating, trembling. And he can’t be sure without looking up close, but his pupils seem oddly dilated.

On an impulse, Ulaz stands up. “Attention!” he yells, and the room snaps into salute.

And then Ulaz realizes he doesn’t know what he was going to say. So instead of speaking, he crosses the room and clamps a hand around Shiro’s bicep, dragging him up.

Laviz clears his throat. “You—you want him, sir? For tonight?”

Of course, Ulaz thinks. Officers’ right. He wasn’t looking for a fuck, but it’d certainly be kinder to Shiro than leaving him to be pummeled while some unknown toxin works in his system. That’s what makes Ulaz angry, really. He did all that research and it’s not even being used.

The room is still staring at him, and at Shiro, who’s struggling up to his knees to lessen the pressure on his arm and shoulder. Ulaz grits his teeth and doesn’t make the human’s efforts any easier.

“Officers’ right,” he finally says, nodding to Laviz. “Choose another for your games.”

“If you please, Ulaz, sir,” says another of the soldiers. Ulaz raises his eyebrows at him. “Officers’ right is game enough for us—isn’t that right, boys?”

There’s an answering cheer.

“It is custom,” says Laviz, “to let us see the first round. —Though of course at your discretion, sir.”

Ulaz smiles politely. It’s not at his discretion, really. Not if he wants to keep out of the soldiers’ talk, not if he wants to keep his head down. And he has to keep his head down, or he risks everything.

“Of course,” he says. “First round only, though.”

He lets go of Shiro’s arm; Shiro falls back to his hands and knees at the sudden release, then slumps to the floor. Ulaz wonders if he’ll even maintain consciousness through an encounter, especially without some antidote to the toxin that’s clearly still affecting him.

It doesn’t matter. A fight with that Kyrsak would hurt him far worse, let alone being left to the mercies of the guards afterwards. Besides, Ulaz can’t back down now that he’s announced his intentions.

He reaches to pull Shiro up again; he thinks of the Blade.

\----

They’re tearing his clothes off.

Shiro doesn’t understand. Well, he thinks he might, but he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want it. His body is a pounding mass of pain, from his shoulders all the way down to his thighs, and he’s cold. He doesn’t want it.

“No,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Please no.”

No one is listening. Probably no one can hear, Shiro thinks; the room is roaring with noise. The rough hands catch at the scabs on his back as they rip his jumpsuit down to the crotch. One of the scabs rips away; something spurts out.

Blood, he hopes. It feels like it might be some kind of pus, but he really, really doesn’t want it to be an infection. Shiro doesn’t have many hard feelings towards death anymore, but infection sounds like a nasty way to go.

Whoever’s been stripping him leaves him in the ripped-open jumpsuit, pulling him forward towards the center of the circle. He’s on his hands and knees, exposed enough to be uncomfortable even without the fears.

And then someone touches his ass.

Shiro flinches violently, almost losing his balance. One of the soldiers steps in to grab his shoulders and Shiro yells; he can’t help it. There are claws digging into his wounded back and claws scraping around his asshole and God, oh God, Shiro isn’t going to make it through this.

The claws against his ass go away, replaced by a cock, and Shiro tries to take a steadying breath but it just turns into a sob. The noise around him builds, like the cheering in the arena.

The cockhead shoves in fast, unexpected. Shiro cries out again; the sound scrapes against his throat. His elbows start to buckle and his legs sway. The scabs across his ass are breaking, too, tearing with the stretch.

Whoever’s behind Shiro thrusts hard, working his way in, and Shiro hopes that means this will be quick. And amid all the various pains, he’s almost grateful for the pain of the grip on his shoulders. It gives him something to focus on, something to keep him from collapsing onto the floor and into the knowledge that he’s being raped by an alien.

Shiro spent his whole childhood dreaming of aliens—meeting them, fighting them, being captured even. But he never dreamed it would be like this.

Even with the heat of the Galra that’s behind him, he’s shivering. Each time the cock rams further in, there’s a flood of warmth, but Shiro knows the tearing he feels is more than scabs.

The intensity builds and builds and builds. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, digging through his mind for something to think of, something to hold onto. But all he can think is that he hopes Matt was spared this, too, when he was sent to the work camps.

And then he thinks he’ll never know.

The Galra behind him moans in pleasure; around them, the cheering grows louder. And then there’s come spilling, filling Shiro up, sticky and warm and oh God, oh God—

It’s just that toxin, Shiro tells himself as he dry-heaves, his stomach turning inside-out to produce a little bit of bile. He hasn’t been able to eat properly for days, anyway, because of it; that’s what it is. It’s not—it’s not because of this.

The cock inside him pulls out. Come dribbles down Shiro’s screaming thighs and smears, burning, into his reopened injuries.

The guard squeezing his shoulders lets go and Shiro falls to the floor, hiding his tear-streaked face. “Please,” he whispers to no one, because there is no one who cares.

\----

He wakes up to soft hands on his shoulders, smearing some cool smooth cream over the fire of the claw-marks there. He tries to push up on his elbows to see where he is, but the hands gently push him back down.

“Hold still,” says a voice above him, in Galra. “Let me tend to you.”

Shiro melts back downward. Is he on a bed? It’s far softer than the floor of his cell.

“This will pinch,” the voice says.

Shiro’s eyes fly open to see a syringe coming towards his arm. “No,” he says, “no, no—don’t put me under, please, I won’t fight—”

He squirms weakly away from the needle, panicking. Needles are bad; they mean experiments. It doesn’t seem like he’s in the lab and he doesn’t see any druids, but _still_.

“This isn’t a sedative.” The voice is still calm, and it’s starting to seem familiar. “It’s the antidote to the toxin in your injuries.”

There’s no reason to trust that that’s the truth, really. But Shiro is too tired to fight it, so he closes his eyes again and submits to the needle slipping into his arm.

He barely feels the prick of the syringe. His whole body is sending him angry flares of pain, so many signals that he can’t decipher them all. He’s vaguely aware of being more comfortable than he was before passing out, but he can’t remember why.

Shiro starts to catalogue. Headache, but that’s pretty standard by now. The soreness in his jaw is a few days old, the bruise there starting to fade. Claw marks in his shoulders. He can’t remember how they got there. Down his back, the infected lashes. They stripe across his ass, too, and then…

Fuck, Shiro thinks, and he starts to hyperventilate. Fuck, because there’s a deep soreness inside him, a feeling of something torn, and he remembers it all. It’s vague, a nightmare lacking sense, but he remembers.

And he remembers the voice, too.

He opens his eyes. The Galra is across the room, his back to Shiro as he sorts through bottles of medication. Then he picks one up and turns around. Shiro struggles up, scrambles off the bed as best he can, because he remembers, this is the one who dragged him off the ground when they were going to make him fight, the one who—

His legs are weak, his whole body throbbing, but fear drives him towards the door. He’s almost there, fingers stretching out to activate the panel, when a hand grabs him by the back of the neck.

Shiro tries to whirl away, but stumbles, his fingers still short of the panel. It takes the Galra only moments to drop him and pin him to the floor, and oh God, thinks Shiro, oh God, he’s going to die.

“You said you wouldn’t fight,” says the Galra. Ulaz, Shiro remembers. They called him Ulaz. His grip is firm, restrictive, but not cruel.

But Shiro is too terrified for caution. The sensations are flooding back over him at having Ulaz so close, remembered pain and terror swirling in with present fear. “That was before I remembered what you did,” he says.

Ulaz flips Shiro onto his back and Shiro screams, pain blurring his vision. Ulaz is saying something, but Shiro can't hear it, and he doesn't want to. He doesn't care.

Ulaz moves in, gripping him by the jaw. That shuts Shiro up, common sense starting to form again in his brain. He shouldn't make this officer angry, not when he's already so weakened, not when Ulaz offered him some kind of help. His pride means nothing here, Shiro reminds himself—if there is help, if there is a chance, he has to take it.

Shiro doesn't believe it, exactly, what he's telling himself. But he believes it enough to shut up and listen when Ulaz speaks again.

“I did not want to hurt you,” Ulaz says. Shiro stares at him, still terrified, doubting. “I did not want," Ulaz repeats, “I did not intend—”and he seems to be stuttering, almost, having difficulty with the words.

“I wanted only to save you from the fight,” Ulaz goes on, at last. “I forgot the customs of officers’ right. Had I had my way, I would've brought you back here immediately. Perhaps—perhaps I would still have bedded you, if you were not opposed, to dissuade any suspicions. But I had to act quickly. There are...a great many things at stake.”

Shiro keeps staring. Is this—an apology? Or is it a justification? Perhaps it is both, but either way, anger is rising up in him again, swelling with a nausea that makes him feel choked as he lies there, pinned, looking his rapist in the face.

“If you had your way,” he spits. “You're the officer, you could've told them no!”

“There are a great many things at stake,” Ulaz repeats, his face hardening. “I would not expect you to understand. It is natural that you are angry, but I did not act of my own will.”

“Don't talk to me about not acting of your own will!” Shiro starts to struggle again and this time Ulaz lets him up, backing away with an odd look. “I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand,” Shiro shoots back, “but as a Galra officer, _sir_ , you have free will enough to—”

“To protect you,” says Ulaz. “I wished to protect you.” His voice is cold. Does Ulaz expect gratitude for his actions?

The thought is enough to make Shiro push himself to his knees so he can vomit. He gasps for air as the bile stings at his mouth and nose; Ulaz takes a step closer but Shiro snarls up at him.

“Don’t,” he chokes out, “Don't touch me, fuck, don't touch me!”

Ulaz backs away again. “I wanted to protect you,” he repeats.

Shiro laughs, bitter and tired. “Some protection,” he says. He’s still not rational, he thinks, or he wouldn't speak this way to an officer. Not when he’s already so badly injured.

“I am sorry,” Ulaz says. “Would you prefer that I do not do such a thing again?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. He's still laughing, dizzy with the horror of it all. “I would prefer that.”

“Even if it is the only way to spare your life?” Ulaz sounds....bizarrely sincere.

“What life,” says Shiro. He folds onto the floor again, curling up. He can still taste the vomit in his mouth. “This isn’t life.”

Ulaz sits down on the floor. Shiro sees him reaching out a hand and flinches away; Ulaz withdraws. “I am sorry,” Ulaz says again. “From your fights in the arena, I had thought I saw in you a burning passion for survival.”

Shiro swallows. “No,” he says. “I’d take death if it were handed to me. Gladly, even. I'm just too much of a coward to walk straight up to it.”

“I do not think you are a coward,” says Ulaz. “I think you have great courage.”

Shiro snorts. “I’ll write that on my tombstone,” he says. “My rapist didn’t think I was a coward.”

Ulaz looks sad at that, thoughtful. “I did not intend—” he starts.

“Too bad,” says Shiro. “You _did_.”

Silence stretches between them. It’s awkward, pained, and Shiro doesn’t care. His back isn’t as bad as it was but it’s still overwhelming, and he feels dirty, like he could scratch off his skin and he still wouldn't be pure.

If he ever gets back to Earth, he thinks suddenly, ludicrously, and tells people he was raped by an alien, who then apologized and said he thought he was doing the right thing—well. That’d be a time. It’d be terrible, probably, but for now Shiro laughs again at the fucking ridiculousness of it all, the fucking absurdity of his existence.

“I will get you a new uniform,” Ulaz says, when Shiro's desperate hilarity quiets down into low sobs, “and a supply of painkillers. Would you like a shower?”

Shiro nods.

“You may use mine,” Ulaz says. “The door locks from inside, but if you are there more than an hour I will be obliged to come in. The bedroom door I must lock from the outside.”

Shiro nods again, tired enough to obey.

He cries in the shower through Ulaz's knocks, through the door being opened. Ulaz shuts off the long-gone-cold water and lifts him out like an infant, handing him towels and a clean jumpsuit. When he's dressed, though, Ulaz cuffs him and takes him back to his cell.

It doesn’t matter, Shiro tells himself, it doesn't matter that Ulaz hurt him. And it doesn’t matter that the gentleness afterwards didn't last. He's got to take what kindness he can find, because there's precious little offered to him here.


End file.
